the incessant clatter of typists and typewriters on every side.
    He unwrapped his ham on whole-wheat with extra mayonnaise and settled in for the 
evening.
    
    It was nine now.
    Mahogany was dressed for the nightshift. He had his usual sober suit on, with his 
brown tie neatly knotted, his silver cufflinks (a gift from his first wife) placed in the 
sleeves of his immaculately pressed shirt, his thinning hair gleaming with oil, his nails 
snipped and polished, his face flushed with cologne.
    His bag was packed. The towels, the instruments, his chain-mail apron.
    He checked his appearance in the mirror. He could, he thought, still be taken for a 
man of forty-five, fifty at the outside.
    As he surveyed his face he reminded himself of his duty. Above all, he must be 
careful. There would be eyes on him every step of the way, watching his performance 
tonight, and judging it. He must walk out like an innocent, arousing no suspicion.
    If they only knew, he thought. The people who walked, ran and skipped past him on the 
streets: who collided with him without apology: who met his gaze with contempt: who 
smiled at his bulk, looking uneasy in his ill-fitting suit. If only they knew what he 
did, what he was and what he carried.
    Caution, he said to himself, and turned off the light. The apartment was dark. He 
went to the door and opened it, used to walking in blackness. Happy in it.
    The rain clouds had cleared entirely. Mahogany made his way down Amsterdam towards 
the Subway at 145th Street. Tonight he'd take the AVENUE OF THE AMERICAS again, his 
favourite line, and often the most productive.
    Down the Subway steps, token in hand. Through the automatic gates. The smell of the 
tunnels was in his nostrils now. Not the smell of the deep tunnels of course. They had a 
scent all of their own. But there was reassurance even in the stale electric air of this 
shallow line. The regurgitated breath of a million travellers circulated in this warren, 
mingling with the breath of creatures far older; things with voices soft like clay, whose 
appetites were abominable. How he loved it. The scent, the dark, the thunder.
    He stood on the platform and scanned his fellow-travellers critically. There were one 
or two bodies he contemplated following, but there was so much dross amongst them: so few 
worth the chase. The physically wasted, the obese, the ill, the weary. Bodies destroyed 
by excess and by indifference. As a professional it sickened him, though he understood 
the weakness that spoiled the best of men.
    He lingered in the station for over an hour, wandering between platforms while the 
trains came and went, came and went, and the people with them. There was so little of 
quality around it was dispiriting. It seemed he had to wait longer and longer every day 
to find flesh worthy of use.
    It was now almost half past ten and he had not seen a single creature who was really 
ideal for slaughter.
    No matter, he told himself, there was time yet. Very soon the theatre crowd would be 
emerging. They were always good for a sturdy body or two. The well-fed intelligentsia, 
clutching their ticket-stubs and opining on the diversions of art-oh yes, there'd be 
something there.
    If not, and there were nights when it seemed he would never find something suitable, 
he'd have to ride downtown and corner a couple of lovers out late, or find an athlete or 
two, fresh from one of the gyms. They were always sure to offer good material, except 
that with such healthy specimens there was always the risk of resistance.
    He remembered catching two black bucks a year ago or more, with maybe forty years 
between them, father and son perhaps. They'd resisted with knives, and he'd been 
hospitalised for six weeks. It had been a close fought encounter and one that had set him 
doubting his skills. Worse, it had made him wonder what his masters would have done with 
him had he suffered a fatal injury. Would he have been delivered to his family in New 
Jersey, and given a decent Christian burial? Or would his carcass have been thrown into 
the dark, for their own use?
    The headline of the New York Post, discarded on the seat across from him caught 
Mahogany's eye: "Police All-Out to Catch Killer". He couldn't resist a smile. Thoughts of 
failure, weakness and death evaporated. After all, he was that man, that killer, and 
tonight the thought of capture was laughable. After all, wasn't his career sanctioned by 
the highest possible authorities? No policeman could hold him, no court pass judgement on 
him. The very forces of law and order that made such a show of his pursuit served his 
masters no less than he; he almost wished some two-bit cop would catch him, take him in 
triumph before the judge, just to see the looks on their faces when the word came up from 
the dark that Mahogany was a protected man, above every law on the statute books.
    It was now well after ten-thirty. The trickle of theatregoers had begun, but there 
was nothing likely so far. He'd want to let the rush pass anyway: just follow one or two 
choice pieces to the end of the line. He bided his time, like any wise hunter.
    
    Kaufman was not finished by eleven, an hour after he'd promised himself release. But 
exasperation and ennui were making the job more difficult, and the sheets of figures were 
beginning to blur in front of him. At ten past eleven he threw down his pen and admitted 
defeat. He rubbed his hot eyes with the cushions of his palms till his head filled with 
colours.
    "Fuck it," he said.
    He never swore in company. But once in a while to say fuck it to himself was a great 
consolation. He made his way out of the office, damp coat over his arm, and headed for 
the elevator. His limbs felt drugged and his eyes would scarcely stay open.
    It was colder outside than he had anticipated, and the air brought him out of his 
lethargy a little. He walked towards the Subway at 34th Street. Catch an Express to Far 
Rockaway. Home in an hour.
    
    Neither Kaufman nor Mahogany knew it, but at 96th and Broadway the Police had 
arrested what they took to be the Subway Killer, having trapped him in one of the up-town 
trains. A small man of European extraction, wielding a hammer and a saw, had cornered a 
young woman in the second car and threatened to cut her in half in the name of Jehovah.
    Whether he was capable of fulfilling his threat was doubtful. As it was, he didn't 
get the chance. While the rest of the passengers (including two Marines) looked on, the 
intended victim landed a kick to the man's testicles. He dropped the hammer. She picked 
it up and broke his lower jaw and right cheek-bone with it before the Marines stepped in.
    When the train halted at 96th the Police were waiting to arrest the Subway Butcher. 
They rushed the car in a horde, yelling like banshees and scared as shit. The Butcher was 
lying in one corner of the car with his face in pieces. They carted him away, triumphant. 
The woman, after questioning, went home with the Marines.
    It was to be a useful diversion, though Mahogany couldn't know it at the time. It 
took the Police the best part of the night to determine the identity of their prisoner, 
chiefly because he couldn't do more than drool through his shattered jaw. It wasn't until 
three-thirty in the morning that one Captain Davis, coming on duty, recognized the man as 
a retired flower salesman from the Bronx called Hank Vasarely. Hank, it seemed, was 
regularly arrested for threatening behaviour and indecent exposure, all in the name of